Shattered Glass
by J.J. Carol
Summary: After defeating Void and saving the town from his destruction, the pack faces the death of a member and caring for Stiles, who is left in critical condition. Written after Aiden's death in episode 3x24 "Divine Move", describing the aftermath. Warning: description of death and medical concern, so rated above K
1. Mirror

It was Lydia who first heard Aiden.

The very first to hear the heart of her wolf failing

It was a soft sound: stuttering in the darkness, faltering in inaudible grace; she felt her own go still.

The Banshee was aware of someone speaking, asking what was wrong. She did not answer, eyes widening at the sound of the final exhale. Her dainty hand slipped from the boy on the floor, the world around her suddenly dimming as the porcelain doll rose to run. Slamming open the school's exit doors, Lydia felt the air clawed from her very being as she saw the lifeless body on the concrete. Eyes having flickered into a colorless, light-lost void that can only be achieved by death, her distraction was being clung to by none other than Ethan. The bloodied sword that had left Aiden's brother alone in that god-forsaken place dripped liquid garnet, each drop like a thunderous wave to Lydia's ear, crashing onto the ground and staining the pavement. She could hear the bubbling of onyx blood from the wound, never to heal as it ran from his abdomen, one her hands had memorized countless times in a forgotten office. The lips she had once kissed— had allowed to caress her skin— were parted, no longer inhaling oxygen, but became cold rocks to a river of darkness that over-flowed thickly. Her vision blurred as her body paralyzed itself, chest caving as she struggled to breathe.

Aiden's mirror was shattering into fragmented pieces, his trembling fingers running over bloodied lips in an attempt to cleanse it from the boy's skin, but only succeeded in spreading it. Dirtied cheeks stained by tear trails, he collapsed onto his chest, Aiden's name dying in his throat before if reached his tongue.

_Does this hurt you as much as it does me?_

_Does dying hurt as much as losing me? _

Ethan's trembling body told his answer, his aching, beating heart mimicking that of the girl, who could watch no longer. Muscles moving her thoughtless body, she spun directionless in a desperate attempt to shield her vulnerable heart from the sheer agony of it all.

Down the banshee came crashing into the arms of a weak, dying boy, who collected her crumbling limps into a gentle embrace. As Lydia hid her face, Stiles viewed the destruction his demon had inflicted. The raw, numbing guilt poisoned his veins, his deep, earthly eyes filled with more emotion than he could humanly contain. His inner remorse intensified as Lydia's muffled scream split the night's quiet aurora, and he cringed from its closeness, but did not let go of the emerald-eyed girl. His cold fingers stroked her amber curls, each strawberry-blond lock intertwining in his hands as he soothed her. In that moment, Stiles wished he had the strength to comfort her without the threat of collapsing. He longed to tell her nonsense that would ease the pain, however so slightly, but his throat was so dry; so raw, as if it had been he who screamed himself hoarse. He longed to stay on his feet for just a moment longer, but it could not be so. Stiles Stilinski, the boy who ran with wolves, survivor of possession, let his hand fall from the crown of amber and his eyes close, his being of skin and bone collapsing as the coils of threatening exhaustion took him captive.

His childhood love gasped in surprise as her shaking limps tried to gather his limp body in her own arms, struggling with his weight that was suddenly capable of pulling them both to the pavement. The alpha whose presence she had not noticed before nearly fell over himself as he rushed to their aid, straining to hear a struggling organ inside his friend's chest. With one glance, it was evident Stiles needed immediate medical care. Quickly collecting his brother's broken body in his arms, involuntarily erupting in chills as their skin brushed one another, Scott rose, clenching his jaw as black inked its way through his veins. The commotion caught Derek and Chris' attention down below, who connected eyes with the alpha. It was decided that Derek would stay with Ethan and call the authorities, having thought of a cover story by the time they would arrive, while Argent and Isaac would give Deaton the Triskele box and find a safe location to hide it from prying eyes and curiosity.

With a nod from their leader, the group departed, each setting off to do their task, and Kira ran to put the jeep into ignition. Scott breathed deeply as he briskly walked in the direction of the awaiting vehicle, eyes closing briefly as the ink flowed beneath his flesh. Stiles' fragile body was so light in his arms, and the alpha feared he would break his tangible bones if he was not careful. Lydia trailed behind, lips sealed tightly against themselves, trembling and wet with hot tears. Ethan's agonizing wails of despair could not be blocked from her range of hearing, no matter how hard she tried to tune it out. Numbly, she walked to the jeep's left-hand door, silently settling into the backseat of the car, not bothering to wipe the running mascara from her cheeks. Scott laid the boy in his arms down like he was placing a bomb into the sand, slowly and gentle as the banshee guided him to rest on her lap, shaking fingers settling in his hair that would be stained by the grief that fell like rainwater from her tormented eyes.

Scott made his way to the driving seat, while Kira buckled in to his right. Glancing at the pale, still face of their Banshee, he but the stick into reverse, and pulled out onto the high school's main road.

* * *

Okay, So I didn't really plan to make this into a divided story, but I ran out of writing juice. What do you guys think so far for part one? (I think I'll just do two sections) I don't know if it was boring, and I apologize if I lost you at some parts. But if you have made it to the end, thank you so much for taking the time to read this. Any comments would be lovely, however, please no negativity if you can help yourselves. Any suggestions/ideas you would like to see in the next chapter? All input is welcome!


	2. A Living Corpse

"_We need help!"_

The scream vibrated the very ceiling tiles, disrupting Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital and its late night peace. Mellissa McCall looked up from the reception desk in time to see her son burst through the entrance doors, Banshee and Kitsune by his side. In his arms was Stiles Stilinski, deep shadows plaguing his eyes like a sickness, the painful ice hiding beneath his skin like a parasite. Nurses rushed as doctors were paged, and it seemed like everything was happening at once. The alpha was slightly resistant to let foreign hands take the burden from his body, and as his friend was transferred from his arms to a gurney, Scott stiffened slightly as the black beneath his veins faded and returned to their host.

Time then seemed to slow to a crawl for a group of three teenagers that were left standing on the hospital's main floor, watching the shell of a boy being wheeled away on a gurney much too big for him, his pale arm hanging lifeless under its rail, pulse being taken by a nameless face that was requesting for immediate fluids. Scott heard the questions of the staff, asking for him and his friends to please have a seat, and if possible, provide any information about what had happened, but they were veered away by the sheriff and Melissa McCall, who had to physically restrain her son from following in suit. He strained to hear Stiles' faint, ragged stutters of a heart; a fight for life that was being lost. Voices trotted over the thudding sound with ease, and he could only listen to the rapid jutter of the wheels, the air being pushed into his fragile lungs with the help of gloved hands…

All the alpha could envision was the tubes running from Stiles' arm, the porcelain skin that was threatening to cave on itself, and the fact he had heard his heart nearly stop twice on the five minute drive there made the hallway seem to spin, twisting and turning in a way that was grotesque. He remembered Melissa's hands cupping his face as she tried to tear his eyes from the vacant space, her lips moving inaudibly, when he heard the clear words of the nameless nurse:

_He's flat-lining_

And suddenly Scott McCall knew what it felt like to die

* * *

Everything was cold.

So unbelievably cold, it was as if he had kissed the morning frost but it had embedded itself into his very skin and had made its way to his heart. Stiles Stilinski wasn't aware of consciousness, of breathing and not breathing. He didn't think, move; the pain was the only thing present besides the unbearable chill. As if shards of metal and glass had lodged themselves firmly into his body, it was constant: burning like a lit coal that could not be cooled by the ice in his soul. It was the pain that Stiles longed to so desperately be free of, yet he felt shackled – anchored—to it, and it ate him slowly, burning away his existence like the pages of a notebook, and the nurses that kept a breathing mask to his face had no idea of this agony. They wheeled the unconscious pack member into a white-walled room, frantically bringing in machines with buttons, wires, and stands, hooking them all up to the still corpse they called alive, being so careful not to break the fragile human.

If Stiles could have seen himself, he would have thought he was looking at a distorted reflection; a shadow, something that was not Stiles at all. This was because of the thousands of tubes running in and out of his dying shell, running from the back of his ears, taped inside his nostrils, his mouth, his stomach: everywhere. IV's found their way to his dry veins and injected fluids, air from a ventilator pumped oxygen into his still lungs, and bandages were wrapped tightly around one of his hands, a gash from Kira's blade having torn into his vulnerable palm. So if the infamous, why-so-serious sheriff's son could have seen himself, he would have been looking at bruised, deep-set eyes, cracked skin, and shattered bones.

He would have been looking at the illustration of death itself.

He would have known that at that very moment, Lydia Martin was tasting iron on her tongue from pressing her lips together too tightly, the intense pressure of suppressing a scream practically splitting the skin.

* * *

It burned her throat, like acid, it clawed its way from her lungs despite her efforts. Nails digging into Scott's hand, she tried to listen to his begging for her to remain silent, pleading with her:

"_Please, Lydia, don't. We can't lose him too."_

"_Please, Lydia, I'll do anything. I'm begging you, please."_

_Please_

_Please_

_Please_

The desperation was making his words thick, slurring them with emotion as he tried to take the pain— oh, the horrible, mind-searing pain that left her senses wailing for oxygen of a different kind— but could only do so much when it came do the banshee's suffering. She wished she could tell him she was doing her best, that it was eating her alive, fighting the very call of her being, but Lydia could hardly nod. All she could hear was Void's faint, haunting voice plaguing the back of her mind, a distant echo of tragedy, pain, strife…chaos.

_What are the voices telling you?_

_Are they saying that Stiles is dying?_

_He is, you know…_

_**He's **__**dying**__._

Her eyes closed at the sudden wave of nausea, the acid biting the back of her tongue. She had not forgotten the trickster-spirit; the Nogitsune who wore her lover's skin and decayed his living body until it was nothing, till the fox's puppet couldn't walk without her support. Despite capturing the demon, ending all the continuous hardship, agony, and loss, it was not enough, because he was still corrupting their life. Stiles was in the Intense care unit, hanging onto life by a string that was about to snap. Lydia was concentrating so hard on the taste of iron in her mouth, on the boy floors above them, that she wasn't even aware of the hot cloth being rubbed against her skin, gently wiping away the black mascara from the girl's eyes and face.

* * *

The kitsune was silent; withdrawn as she moved the small towel across the flesh. What could she possibly say that could make it better? She never knew Aiden that well, and even though she and Stiles both shared an alpha, she was a new pick of the pack, not even truly one of them, so she didn't think she had the privilege to really call herself his friend just yet. Secretly, she blamed her mother for this, and herself. If Noshiko had never called on the Nogitsune for Rhys' avengement, Void would have never possessed an innocent boy. No one would have been injured or killed. Stiles wouldn't be grasping for something he once had. None of this would have happened if her family had never come into the picture…Scott wouldn't have lost his first love. Lydia would still have her best friend. With her tongue heavy as lead, Kira chose to hold it and focus her attention on tucking Lydia's strawberry blonde locks behind a freckled, porcelain ear, and she ignored how her hands shook.

Void's coal-colored blood remained dry, cracked as it clung to the underside of her fingernails. No amount of scrubbing in the hospital restroom had aided in it's removal. It seemed so out of place when paired with the white washcloth. Kira didn't like the contrast, and it made her wonder if it hurt Stiles when she ran the sword through the Nogitsune's body. When it shattered his chest cavity, running through his rib-cage and protruding through his chest, did Void's pawn feel the blossoming fire erupt through his upper torso? Or was it slow, creeping upon him in the form of tunnel vision, causing his blackout and unbearable pain that Scott described? She hoped that wasn't the case. She hoped not a single ounce of that agony touched him.

She hoped it wasn't her doing.

.

.

.

* * *

**OKAY GUYS, LET ME ****EXPLAIN**

I know I promised some of you I'd update weeks ago, but my computer crashed and decided it wasn't going to live anymore. So, boom: lost files, lost pictures. Everything GONE. I lost my work, so i had to write a new one from scratch. Yay. I intended for this to be longer, but I've decided to expand the story to fully cover stiles' recovery/the aftermath. I couldn't possibly contain it all in two short chapters. But i promise you, the next update will not take nearly as long. I'm currently working on it, and maybe, just _maybe_, you'll see an update by this Wednesday! :) Thoughts and comments? Don't worry, there will be some ships sailing in the future. Anything you'd like to see in the next chapters? Message me, and we'll talk!


	3. Life Support

The body of Aiden Carver laid on the stretcher, the body-bag covering his corpse unzipped to reveal his upper torso and face. If Ethan didn't pay attention to the wound in his brother's abdomen or still chest, it was almost possible to believe Aiden was sleeping: dreaming of something far better than the current reality… Probably of Lydia, who never had a chance to fully understand how deeply he cared for her; almost as much as he did for Ethan. The thought made the werewolf's eyes burn, and he attempted to swallow the forming lump in his throat.

"I should have been by your side…" He said softly, feeling restriction in his chest. "You'd still be alive if…"

The surviving twin stopped, lower lip trembling too fiercely to form anymore words. He could hear Derek's conversation with the Paramedics and Police a few feet away from the ambulance's closed doors, picking up words that drilled holes in his heart:

"…Coming back to get the motorcycle…came out of nowhere…had a knife…"

Ethan had practiced his lines before anyone had arrived: how a masked vigilante cornered the two wolves as they made their way to pick up Aiden's forgotten bike, drew a switch blade and demand he be given the keys and their wallets. The lie was that the dead brother had attempted to take the weapon from their attacker, but was stabbed in the process, and after reaching for the police, Ethan called Derek, who was listed down as an acquaintance and friend. Ethan shook his head, salt-kissed tears running down to a humorless smile as he thought about the tale.

If only they knew.

His eyes fixated themselves on the victim's face, memorizing it the best he could: fuller bottom lip, thicker eyelashes, one eyebrow less angled; a tiny list of details that made the two different…the things other people never took the time to notice. It was these small, unimportant traits he'd never see in the mirror. Ethan wouldn't be able to convince himself Aiden was on the other side of the glass. He would just be talking to an illusion; a belief that would never be reality. But that was the cruelty of being the one left breathing: there's no point to it once that someone was gone.

"Hey," Derek's voice came to him, close by the Ambulance's back doors, "Their going to take him to the morgue."

The former alpha paused, his next line softer than before.

"You don't have to go, Ethan. They can contact you when it's time…"

_For the Funeral_

Ethan breathed deeply, eyes looking upward as he blinked away the blurriness. He hoped that wherever Aiden was, he knew that his pain was still being shared; that it lived on even though he did not. He didn't feel he had the strength to take on that cruel world alone. He couldn't, not without Aiden. They were supposed to stay together…protect one another, till time came to a halt. It was a promise created long ago; their very nature, an oath. So why was Ethan the only one who kept his word?

_You can't leave me. _

He looked away from the broken body laid before him, eyes squeezing shut so he couldn't see his dead reflection.

_I can't do this without you._

As he stood there, a shaking, violent mess, Ethan wondered if this is what it felt like to die. To have the earth suddenly crumble beneath your feet with no one to catch you as you fall into the crevasse. To feel the dirt cover you like you were nothing, covering your ways to breathe and crushing your chest with its weight. It's dreading waking up in a world without that someone, and having to cope with the fact that they're gone and you're left alone: a broken, lost little thing that's been left out in the rain. It's longing to join the dead so you won't be parted from the one you loved most; to silently drown in an ocean of agony and depression, with no one to save you from the current.

He knew it was time to leave, but he couldn't will himself to move. Not yet.

Chest aching; world caving in on itself, the broken brother rested a hand on his counter's heatless brow, failing to suppress the brief sob from escaping his lips. It was the final embrace, laugh, smile…a final goodbye; one Aiden didn't have to hear. It was a final touch that wasn't separated by six feet of earth and a gravestone. It was their final moment, together.

So they cherished it.

* * *

Christopher glanced over at Isaac, sound asleep on the couch, Allison's favorite blanket laid over his grieving body. An empty cup no longer containing chai tea sat among the glass coffee table, and beside it, a silver arrow. The family sigil carved into its smooth frame made the Hunter look back to his desk and the papers before him, his eyes suddenly pricking with fresh irritation. It was a cruel reminder of how much had been taken from him: First, his sister, then his wife, and finally, his daughter, who never lived to see her eighteenth birthday… His little girl whose funeral he'd have to attend the following week. He'd take Isaac to get fitted for a proper suit in due time, but they were both to raw, too broken, to do it now, so he let the boy rest.

Chris had made it a point to visit Stiles in the hospital once he found the strength. Based on Melissa's texts, he knew the patient was unstable, not guaranteed to wake up soon— if he even survived— due to the severe trauma his body and mind had physically and emotionally endured. However, Argent doubted Stiles would want to wake up to the deaths of two beloved friends and the guilt that came with it… It seemed the children of that town suffered the most, endured the worst hardships that would have broken others. How could they stay there, going on with their daily lives? Chris was only capable of doing this by compartmentalizing his emotions, but even so, he could only go through so much. He glanced at the plane tickets on the desk, a one-way to Paris, France. Inches from it were the adoption papers for Isaac Lahey, painfully blank. It was the night after Allison's death, when he held the wolf in his arms, that he realized what he had to do. He couldn't leave his daughter's love an orphan, with no family besides Scott. No matter how far away Isaac was from his pack, he was still connected to them in an unspeakable way, and Chris feared this would leave the teenager regretting his choice to go with him. But deep down, Argent knew they couldn't stay, not with Allison's memory living in the everyday things of Beacon Hills. Isaac would come, but would be promised frequent returns to California. Chris wanted what was best for him: one of the boys he considered a son.

Argent looked up as the figure on the couch shifted, inhaling deeply as he muttered in his sleep. He knew what would happen when Isaac woke from his escape from reality: The werewolf would blink, allowing himself to recognize his surroundings. He would call out to her softly, as if he was reassuring himself she was still sitting on the couch, eating ice-cream as he dozed during the movie date. It would take him a moment to understand, to remember why he is alone, wrapped in something that smells so strongly of her. All it would take was that moment of realization for his naïve wish to fade. He'd understand that Allison would never answer him, because she wasn't there. Chris watched Isaac become very still, burrowing down into the comforting plush of the couch, and he relaxed once more.

* * *

Lydia would have slept if it were possible, the tendrils of a bitter-sweet dream calling to her; begging. The sharp twinges of heart monitors and the ticking of the wall clock left her wincing, and she envied the light snoring of Scott McCall as he rested with Kira's head nestled firmly in the crook of his neck. His fingers were still linked loosely with the Banshee's, though it was there for comfort and not pain-relief, as the need to scream had faded to a manageable state. However, the uncomfortable waiting chair made her back ache, and she longed to be in a bed with a nice pillow and blanket. Despite the hospital staff, she was probably the only one in the building who was awake at the late hour: figures. Letting out an impatient sigh, she closed her eyes and attempted to silence the noises around her and in her mind, which was easier said than done. Again, she felt jealousy arise at how slowly the two beside her breathed, dreaming deeply without the threat of a scream to burn their lips. Lydia tried to imagine something comforting to ease her thoughts: Natalie Martin's special cup of cocoa for frost-bitten days, or the sight of delicate petals from the potted Orchid in her Archaic Latin class. Recalling the days in the library soothed her as well: the feeling of crisp pages underneath her fingertips, with new information in every novel was a secret paradise. Even in that moment, the strawberry-blonde could recall the warming scent of a leather binding. How simple everything was back before the supernatural claimed her life, when all the Banshee had to worry about were fashion weeks and the charade of idiocy. But somehow, among all the chaos and mysteries of Beacon Hills, Lydia felt she had found herself. A new kind of confidence in her true self had bloomed, and the old Lydia Martin had abandoned her old skin. The gentle comfort of peaceful rest began to embrace her with loving arms, drawing her into a soft ease, and she felt her muscles finally rest themselves. However, it was then that Lydia heard something from the back of her consciousness that disrupted all illusions of tranquility in their tracks.

_Lydiaaa…_

He crooned her name like a lullaby being sung to a child, and the familiar voice brought a feeling of negative energy upon her. She stiffened, her exhaustion nothing more than leaves in the wind. No, it wasn't possible. She had witnessed a katana rip through his chest cavity; had seen his empty shell of a body reduce to nothing but dust. It was a trick; her imagination.

"Scott," her throat was tight, voice barely a whisper as she squeezed his limp hand, "Scott!"

He was deaf to her pleas, too enchanted by the spell of sleep to wake.

_Come find us, Banshee-Girl, and we'll make you scream…_

Lydia swallowed, realizing her predicament; realizing what she had to do. It wasn't intelligent to search for his hiding place, and she knew it. But his voice kissed her ears, and she knew she couldn't sit there. Rising silently from her chair, Lydia's heart began to beat vigorously within her chest as a terrible knowing filled her. Letting go of Scott's hand felt like untethering herself from a beacon of hope, the emptiness between her fingers frightening. Lydia's heels clinked lightly against the flooring as she took steps away from the waiting area, fingers gripping the hem of her dress. The Hospital was all the sudden very quiet, the only sound being the demon spirit dancing around within her skull. It was almost as if a force was drawing her to the elevator's doors, daring the doll to pass its silver gates. Biting a garnet lip, Lydia lifted a shaking hand and pressed the cold button residing on the control panel. It only took a moment for the doors to slide open in greeting, and as the Wailing Woman took tentative steps inside, she attempted to bury the blooming dread within her chest, failing to ignore how the hair on her arm pricked. Lydia paused at the button circuit, unsure about what floor. Her brows knitted together as she ran her eyes over them momentarily, and went to push one. However, before her finger could press against its cool surface, another inscribed with the number five illuminated itself. A frost graced her spine as she inhaled unsteadily, the elevator beginning to rise in its shaft.

What she would have given for Allison to be by her side.

The chime that signaled her arrival came too quickly, and the sleek doors took no time parting themselves to reveal a hallway, partially lit by shorting lights in the ceiling. Decorating the passageway, among the scattered papers and IV bags, lay the piled bodies of the various medical staff, doctors, and nurses. Their faces were frozen; lifeless, pale in contrast to the gaping carnage and shredded skin. Blood colored the floor tiles and plain walls, dripping down from the railings and collecting in pools by the limp corpses. When the vile odor of rotting flesh and severed intestine reached her nose, Lydia felt her stomach convulse, body hunching instinctively as she did her best not to vomit. She shielded her eyes from the grave-site, light-headedness gripping her tightly. It didn't take much to imagine the cruel amusement that must have shown in his dark eyes. What a heavenly revelation it must have been to watch the life drain from his victims; how wonderful it must have felt to taste their unearthly pain. Yet he still could not be satisfied.

_Let's play a game: we hide, you seek._

She didn't want to play; to give into his sick request and amuse the devil fox. But what choice did she truly have? It seemed she was being moved on the chess board, whether she liked it or not. The Strawberry-Blonde parted her lips, allowing a tremoring exhale to escape her burning throat, and with it, her last shred of possible sanity. The protégé gathered her fleeting courage and walked out of the elevator, leaving the light behind and traveling into the Void before her. Lydia bit her lip as the hot blood from the bodies before her met the bottom of her heels, staining the brown leather a haunting crimson. Looking to the ceiling, she maneuvered slowly around them, trying her best not to disturb the make-shift grave. Their silent screams of agony seemed to vibrate the very core of her being, every dying breath a record only her ears could hear. Most importantly, she could hear _his_ laugh, clear and demented as it dripped with seductive power. It didn't belong to the face he wore. As she made her way hesitantly, Lydia began eyeing the patients' rooms. Perhaps the Nogitsune was dwelling inside one of the dorms, waiting for the little pawn to discover him.

As it turns out, she was right.

It was easy to spot: faraway at the end of the hall, illuminated by the dying lights above it; within her reach in seconds. The image made her throat dry. He was providing her an open invitation, one he knew she would accept. It was because of the door that she knew what was waiting for her if she dared step inside… She'd have to look into the lifeless, haunting eyes that gleamed over the piled corpses of Beacon Hills; that gleamed over Allison and Aiden, yet, she walked towards it anyway. Closer and closer she came until her red-polished nails clinked against the silver doorknob, and the metal cooled her sweating palm. Hesitation washed over her like water, drowning her mind with different approaches, different options, anything to keep her from seeing that malicious monster once again. He'd taken so much from her, and Lydia had made it a point to push the mere thought of him to the very depths of her subconscious, where his insidious hunger and poisonous games could never reach her again. However, there she was, right in his palm once more, nothing but a piece for him to do as he wished. She would have to look into the face of her closest friend, and be at the mercy of the monster within. _No_, she reminded herself. She would not give the Kitsune the right of validation, the acknowledgment of the skin it had taken. It was not Rhys. It was not Stiles. It was a demon forged from centuries of violence, loathing, malice and agony. It was what parents told their children to be fearful of.

So why was she opening the door?

It was too late to take back the action - the mistake – as Lydia crossed the threshold, a cold chill kissing her exposed skin, deep in contrast to the budding heat in her twisting stomach. Emerald eyes searched through the lightless room, and she felt the walls for a power switch, but found nothing. She relied on hearing to guide her as she stumbled, making her way towards the sound of a heart monitor. The doll dimly recalled the stinging beeps of the machine that had prevented her rest. All she was concerned about was the hospital curtain that brushed against her body, making the girl go still. She could sense the spirit; could feel it's dark aura dwelling behind that thin covering like a story that longed to be told. She wanted to be brave, and demand it face her. She didn't want to play any longer, and was sick of the game. However, the voice that pierced through the shadows did not come from her lips.

"_You found us_."

Eyes widening, she ripped the curtain to the side in one quick motion, only to be silenced by a silhouette that stood above the body of a dying boy.

"Shhh…" Void said softly, "He's dreaming."

Lydia's emotional state could only be described as terror as she took in the scene before her. The Nogitsune's pale finger stroked Stiles protruding cheekbone gently, almost as if he pressed too hard, he would shatter his puppet. Stiles winced, a shuttering exhale leaving his lips as death itself inhaled his delicious pain. The fox tilted his head ever so slightly, gazing upon his reflection with a dark fondness. Lydia ground her teeth with each caressing touch, the desire to rip Void's deadly hands away from Stiles' skin overwhelming her tiny frame. She wished to bind them so they could never touch him again.

"Get away from him."

She wanted to sound stronger than her trembling voice portrayed; to use the anger that was bubbling within her blood, but the fear was more than present in her words, and she despised it. The Nogitsune turned his attention then to her, eyebrows raised as a smirk danced on his lips. Lydia felt very small as he eyed her with a sense of humored fascination and dark interest.

"Why?" He said lowly, smugness evident in his tone. "Afraid I'll hurt him…?"

It happened so quickly, Lydia didn't have time to respond. She blinked, and he was no longer there. Fearfully scanning the shadows, the girl searched for his face, heart beating rapidly in her chest. His words echoed in her mind, and she could hear the correction.

…_hurt us?_

She fought off a rupture of chills as his hot breathe grazed the side of her exposed neck, his cold fingers tucking one strawberry-blonde strand of hair behind her ear. He was terribly close to her, inches from her back as he leaned in even more.

"Does it bother you, Lydia?"

Her nails dug into the softness of her palms, and she kept her eyes shut. Biting down on a garnet lip, she endured the brushing of the demon's lips against her jaw, trying her best to remain still. He smiled at the smell of her flesh and its familiarity. Not so long ago, he had been breathing in the same mind-numbing pain, standing in a dripping tunnel that echoed with the screams of the dead. It left his tongue craving more.

"Is it difficult seeing him like this?" The whispers were poison, staining her ears like wine on carpet. "Is it difficult knowing that this could have been prevented if he hadn't been kept a fragile little human…if you had just payed _attention._"

The tears were rising now, threatening to run from under her closed lids as Lydia's lip trembled violently. Void was now in front of her, his frozen fingertip whisking away a hot droplet that had escaped and began to run down her cheek. When he spoke again, the spirit's voice was hushed, as if his words were a secret for her and her alone, despite being the only two conscious for the conversation.

"Look at me."

Mascara stained the rosy cheeks of Lydia Martin, running along with the burning tears and mixing with the salt as it dribbled down her neck and into the neckline of her dress. She felt utterly weak, and longed for Scott – someone; anyone – to save her. She was frightened of the shadows, of the bodies, and the voices. She felt exposed; naked, and was being eyed like a piece of meat ready to be devoured. He spoke to her with an evident hunger, starvation lurking behind every seductive word, and every show of power. The insatiable craving for suffering was directed upon her, and there was no escaping it.

"Look at me, Lydia…" Void said once more, placing a hand under her chin and bringing her face to him.

His touch was like gasoline, igniting the skin it came in contact with, despite the warmth his body lacked. She didn't dare move, eyes remaining squeezed shut. Suddenly, as if blowing out a candle, his calm atmosphere snapped.

"_**Look at me!**_"

She cringed at his sudden roar, fighting the grip that held her jaw in place. It seemed tight enough to crush the bone. The Wailing Woman reluctantly opened her eyes and met the dark gaze of the Nogitsune.

"I want you to remember this, Lydia. I want you to remember this moment." His voice was no longer humorless, instead lurking with malice, bitterness, and hatred. "I want you to remember my voice. Do you know why? "

He took a moment to force her eyes back upon him—as the banshee had begun to look away—and snarled the answer to his rhetorical question.

"Because when Stiles is all alone in the middle of the night, sleep deprived and terrified of his own reflection, shaking on the bathroom floor, I will be the one waiting in the darkness of his mind. When his dying body is so weak that he can't even find the strength to speak, I will be his voice..."

His words were slow, precise; crisp and audible as he leaned in close to the Banshee before him.

"…and when the guilt finally becomes too much, he'll come _crawling_ to me; _delirious_, _begging_. Even if he passes and you bury him, I'll find a way to his body. I'll claw out of the _grave_. Together, we will destroy every one of you Bakemonos in this town. And guess what, Lydia?"

The final words he whispered were inches from her ear, as soft as the breeze but it dripped with an ancient fury that could make the strongest warrior cower.

"_You'll be the last one to die_."

* * *

Lydia awoke with a start, heart pounding furiously as she struggled for breath. Beside her, Scott and Kira turned towards her in surprise, her sudden burst having frightened them as well.

"Lydia?" Scott took her trembling hand, concern thick in his voice. "Are you okay?

She swallowed, blinking a few times as she took in her surroundings. Void was nowhere to be seen.

"Lydia…" Scott tried again, and she looked to him.

"Fine," She said breathlessly, unable to stop her tremors. "…Just a nightmare."

"What was it about?" Kira questioned, peeking from behind the Alphas form.

Lydia stared off into the distance, inhaling to answer, but unable to say anything. Had it really been a dream? She could still feel his breath on her skin; could hear his laughter. Should she tell them? The Banshee wasn't sure if she wanted to.

Thankfully, the decision didn't have to be made, for the form of Melissa McCall came around the corner to greet them, and Scott rose to his feet.

"What's going on?" He said, "How is he?"

"Well, considering he survived a possession, I'd say pretty well."

"So he's going to be okay," Kira breathed, letting go of the fear she had been harboring.

However at these words, Melissa became quiet.

"What is it?" Scott said, any hope he had disappearing with the ticking of the front desk clock.

"He's on life support," She managed, "So far, this is one of the worst cases of dehydration and malnutrition we've seen in someone his age. His levels were low enough to be considered coma-worthy. His body has undergone a lot of damage," she continued, "…and if we take him off support now…"

"He'll die," Lydia whispered.

* * *

Wow, so I have a lot of apologizing to do.

I know I said I'd update MONTHS ago, and I'm so sorry that I kept you all waiting. I do want to be honest with all of you, and admit I've been going through a lot recently. I don't really want to explain it all in detail, but I have been struggling, and if you pray, please keep me and my family in your thoughts.

Don't worry my lovelies, I will update soon! Message me your thoughts and what you'd like to see in the next chapter(s).

p.s. I'm thinking about changing my name. I just want you guys to have a heads up so that if it does happen, you'll not be in the dark.


	4. (To Be Taken Down)

Readers,

I know I haven't updated, and I apologize for my absence. Shortly after my last chapter was posted, my computer completely crashed. Being unemployed and physically unable to drive until recently, I did not have the money or the resources to purchase a new computer. However, now my circumstances have changed, and I am going to head to town in hopes of buying a Lenovo Laptop that has caught my eye. I would like to thank you all for your patience and ask that you keep it in the coming weeks/months. I don't know when I will be able to post due to my schedule, but I will try to establish a pattern. Please understand I have been under severe stress and I am currently battling with many issues, so be considerate and keep negative, accusatory, or demanding comments or direct messages to a minimum. Again, I apologize for the silence, and can only promise an update when it is available. Thank you.

Yours Truly,

J.J. Carol


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